


The Hollow Men

by The_Lionheart



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick Fury's skin crawls with the memory of a slim, cool hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Our Dried Voices, When We Whisper Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragonwrangler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwrangler/gifts), [invictofiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/invictofiction/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Other Gods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/318491) by [The_Lionheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart). 



> I don't think you need to read The Other Gods for this to make sense- or vice versa- but it certainly helps. (Basically, I wanted to show the same events from a slightly different perspective.)

Nicholas Fury reviews the tapes, leaning his mouth into his hand as he gazes at the screen. Phil Coulson looms nearby, radiating displeasure. Phil's not even supposed to _be_ here, he's got a mission to perform in the city, but his operation gives him most weekends off and he won't _say_ it- but he _needs_ to be here. He needs to be here for their prisoner, who paces and collapses and crawls into corners on the security feeds before them.

Their prisoner is Loki, brother of Thor, supposed son of Odin, and Nick Fury's skin crawls with the memory of a slim, cool hand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Nick is sixteen, his brother Jakob is drafted into the Vietnam war, and Nick puts away the reprinted Captain America comic books and the pulp novels and the spy thrillers they used to read together. They are childish things, mockeries of the loss of his brother and closest friend. His father, Jack, loses fifteen pounds in those first three months after Jake leaves home, and their mother tries to shield his baby sister Dawn from the sight of their father, as if he is a broken thing, a wild element.

“You go to college, Nicky,” his mother warns him, a comforting hand on the back of his shirt. Jack Fury is a war hero and Jakob Fury is out there, and Nick doesn't understand why his parents are sick to death of hearing about his decision to join up as soon as he can, as soon as they'll let him, but he's young enough still to _listen to his mama_ , and take her words to heart.

He works hard, because it's what his parents want, and he applies to the newly-opened branch of CUNY, and even though he'll have to work two jobs after classes to _do_ it he gets _in,_ and Mom and Dad can't contain their pride, and even Jake's letter of congratulations rings true.

It's a warm winter, with promises of a balmier spring, and in early March the newspapers announce the birth of Anthony Edward Stark, late-in-life heir to the Stark dynasty. It warrants a glance and nothing more, as Nick finishes his last few months of high school and pores over the latest letter from Jake.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“There,” Coulson says abruptly. Nick pauses the tape- why do they _still_ call it that, when everything is digital now?- and rewinds it a little. “That glitch, again. Look at the timestamps. These security feeds have been tampered with- they're _worthless_.” Nick sighs and nods. They should have been watching the video feed of Ludwig Rinehart's session with their prisoner- instead, it showed Loki pace erratically for most of an hour, before curling up on his cot.

“How far does this go?” Nick asks, feeling twice his age. SHIELD used to be so much _more_ than this- back when it was just Stark and Carter and the surviving Commandos, working with a bunch of kids like Fury and Mason and d'Alexis. _Carter would have never let this happen,_ he thinks, _Dugan never would have let this happen._

“Rinehart answers directly to Colonel Wraith,” Coulson mutters, before opening a slim file. “And Wraith is... _supposedly_ operating under the aegis of the Council.”

“They've tasked him with the retrieval of the Tesseract,” Nick says quietly, massaging the corner of his jaw. “As long as he's not actually breaking any laws-”

“You're _not_ just going to let this happen,” Coulson says firmly, and Nick makes a futile gesture at the screen.

“I'll think of something, Phil, but for now it's out of our hands.” They're both silent for a few minutes, Coulson worrying at the slim wedding band he puts back on the second he's off-duty.

“You should get some sleep,” he says suddenly, glancing over at Nick. “Mikel's still in Medical. You ought to visit him before they put him back in the field.”

“Sure,” Nick tells him, and he knows it's not condemnation in Coulson's eyes, but a judgment nonetheless.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's mid-January, 1980, and Nick doesn't know what to make of the green-eyed man in front of him, the delicate pink tongue snaking out between slightly parted lips.

“You shouldn't be here,” Nick tells him, and the man smiles brightly. His eyes are so pale and _vivid_ that Nick can almost imagine them emitting light, and he can imagine it as a faint glow against his high porcelain cheekbones.

“I could say the same to _you_. Are you not at _war_ with the ruler of this land?” the man purrs, long fingers pressing against Nick's chest. He doesn't have any gloves on, even though it's fucking _freezing_. Without thinking, Nick's hand snags the man's wrist, his fingers curling on it until he thinks he can feel a pulse through the butter-soft leather between them.

“Who are you?” Nick hisses, terrified because he _should_ have heard back from Agent Mason by now, because it's one of the first missions he's been in charge of since his training with Dugan and Dame Carter, because he's still on the green side of thirty and if he fucks this up, he might as well slit his wrists because there won't be _any fucking point_ to coming back home-

“Easy, easy,” the man says, looking concerned as he leans closer, pressing his forehead against Nick's. “Easy. Your flaxen-haired companion has a minor injury that is slowing her progress, but she is otherwise fine. None of your enemies are conscious; most of them are dead.”

“Who _are_ you?” Nick grits out, horribly aware of every point of contact as the man leans into him, humming a little under his breath.

“Skywalker,” the man murmurs, and seems taken aback by the flash of recognition in Nick's eyes.

“What, like- Star Wars?” Nick asks slowly, thinking of Jake, of seeing the movie with him last year. The green-eyed man stares at him for a moment, shaking his head a little.

“Clearly there is _much_ I have to learn about your mortal literary references,” he whispers, before brushing too-cold lips against Nick's, his mouth startled open by the sudden contact. Nick jerks away from him, his back hitting the wall, eyes narrowing.

“Don't _do_ that- don't _distract_ me,” he growls, reaching for his sidearm, but the man laughs playfully, disappearing into mist, into fog, into an inky shadow. A second later Agent Mason limps into view, shaking bits of broken glass out of her thick blonde hair.

“Well, _that_ went well,” she says happily, before catching Nick's sour expression. “What the hell crawled up _your_ ass, Fury?”

“Nothing,” he snaps, passing a hand over his face. “Sorry, Louise, I just- let's just go home.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Instead of going down to Medical, Nick heads down to the cells, passing by Bruce Banner's self-imposed exile and straight into the cell containing their prisoner- _his_ prisoner. Loki is curled up on the edge of the cot, gazing blankly at the floor, and after a moment Nick takes a seat on the cot next to him, giving Loki enough space to feel safe.

“It could have fixed everything,” Loki whispers, sounding lost, sounding broken. “If I could have brought it back to the Allfather, he- he could have used it, _properly_. He could have made living those who had died and repaired all that had been broken. And he would have- he would have seen that I- that all I wanted was to be _his son_.”

Loki sighs, as if saying all those words took a lot out of him. It doesn't sound like a lie to Nick, and that worries him, because if he can't tell when Loki's lying, even at this point, it might take a lot longer to coax information out of him.

If it's the truth, it's hitting a little _too_ close to home, and Nick thinks of Mikel, of an assassination attempt foiled by Agents Coulson and Romanov, of Mikel lying in a bed over in the infirmary.

“It's not too late to make up for the things you've done,” Nick begins, half afraid to say it lest Loki sees why Nick is saying it, who he's had to say it to before. “The mistakes you've made... you don't always _get_ second chances, but when you get them...” Nick almost didn't get a second chance with Mikel, he remembers.

There is a featherlight touch on his arm, drawing Nick out of the dark valley of _what-if_ , and it startles Nick, just a little, and half of it is that _Loki_ , of all people, would try to _comfort_ him.

“You're _wasting_ your chance to make things right, Mr. Odinson,” he growls, because he _is_ , because Nick is wasting his _own_ chances.

“Maybe it's too late for me. Maybe I don't _deserve_ to be forgiven,” Loki says, and for a moment Nick can see naked emotion in those green eyes, something in there _pleading_ to be seen. Nick thinks about the summer of 1992, about seeing that pleading expression _before_.

“Maybe I don't even _want_ to be forgiven,” he adds, and Nick knows the lie as soon as it's said. Nick gets up and strides towards the door, because there's somewhere he needs to _be_. He shouldn't have come down to see Loki in the first place, shouldn't have let Loki be what he's always been to Nick- a _distraction_.

“I think on some level you and I both know that's _not true_ ,” Nick tells him, eye narrowed, and that seems to throw off Loki's exhaustion for a few precious moments, because Loki's on his feet and snarling like a cat. The door shuts, and Nick finally exhales.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's the end of April, 2006, and Nick feels like something inside him is _broken_ , that he is one misstep from crumbling into nothing. He doesn't want softness or pity from his agents, and he's _so grateful_ for Coulson and Romanov, for their impeccable professionalism.

“You shouldn't go in there, sir,” Coulson reminds him gently. “He may try again to kill you.”

“He's been sedated,” Nick says, and hates that it comes out begging. “If it's safe enough for the nurses and doctors, it's-”

“Sir,” Romanov says, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. “He's been... conditioned since childhood. At this rate, we don't know how many triggers he might have, or how powerful his conditioning is.”

“He's still just a _kid_. If it's brainwashing, we can _fix_ it,” Nick says desperately, because they've done it _before_ and she _knows_ it. Neither of his Agents protests when he reaches for the door again. He steps through and lets it shut behind him, his entire world focused to a single point on the bed.

It's just that he's so _young_ , he seems so _small_ , strapped down to a hospital bed with tubes and wires sticking out of him, and when he looks up at Nick, his honey-colored eyes are huge and round and _terrified_.

“Mikel, can you hear me?” Nick asks softly, and the boy- _the man,_ Nick corrects himself, _this kid's almost nineteen_ \- nods a little. His hands are shaking, and Nick takes a seat near the bed, his fingers closing around Mikel's hand, cradling it.

“You're going to be okay,” Nick promises, even though he doesn't _know_ , because he has to _believe_ it. Mikel looks the way Dawn's kids _should_ have looked, he looks like what they should have grown up to be. “I'm not going to leave you, alright?”

Mikel nods, and eventually the tremor in his hand disappears.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Six years later, and Nick walks straight from Loki's cell to Medical. The door is open and Nick stops in it for a moment, just to watch. There is an IV in Mikel's arm and a bandage wrapped around his chest and shoulder, but he's flipping through a book and his iPod is charging on the table next to him, so he's probably not hurting too badly. Nick gives the open door a knock, and Mikel glances up, a smile brightening his face.

“Hey, Dad,” he says, gesturing Nick over. He's come so far since six years ago, has been a full Agent for almost two of those years now, and pride and love and sadness for all the lost time between them surges in Nick's chest.

“Hey, kid. How's the shoulder?” Nick asks, taking a seat in the chair near the bed. Mikel gives a little half-shrug, and Nick thinks abruptly of Loki in the cell, of how things with Mikel could have just as _easily_ fallen apart.

Nick isn't going to waste any more of his chances to fix things.


	2. Eyes I Dare Not Meet In Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably do need to have read The Other Gods to understand what's happening in most of this chapter, actually.

Nine missions out of ten, Nick Fury doesn't see his mysterious green-eyed stranger.

On the tenth mission, Nick is trying to snatch a few hours of sleep, in the early stages of an operation to remove the leaders of drug cartel in South America when there is suddenly a slim body behind him, pressed against his back in the narrow bunk, breathing raggedly in short, shallow bursts.

Nick is up and holding a gun to his head in a matter of seconds. It takes nearly twice that amount of time to realize that the green-eyed man is quite obviously _hurt_.

“Let me see,” Nick's traitorous mouth says before his brain can lock it down, and the man gives him a startled little smile.

“It's not _bad,_ ” he lies, blood spotting against his teeth, bared in a false smile. “I just wanted to see you before I went home,” he adds, and that, at least, is not a lie.

“You're hurt, and I might be able to help you,” Nick says, but he doesn't lower the gun, not quite yet. This guy shouldn't even know where Nick is, much less have some ability to _access_ him. There are guards, there are security measures, there's Nick's training. Nick's lost count of the times Stark or Carter or Dugan have pulled him aside to tell him not to be a _hero_ , to finish the job first and worry about other people _never._ Nick doesn't think any of them realize that their stories about Captain Rogers and his final sacrifice have had the _opposite_ effect on him, because the gun's already holstered somehow and he's pulling out his small first aid kit.

“You're more confident than you were last time,” the man says softly, and at Nick's steely glare he sighs and removes part of his complicated-looking jacket and vest, pulling down a soft green shirt until Nick can see the meaty bullet wounds high on his left shoulder. Nick sucks in a breath, but he tries to be professional, tries to remember exactly what he was trained to do in this situation.

“How many?” he asks, and the man tries to shrug and winces sharply.

“Three. I think. They're still in me. I _can't_ go back with- I can't have these _things_ in me when I get home...” The man swallows, his throat clicking dryly. “I've had _worse_ injuries than this, but I'm having a bit of difficulty _concentrating_ on...”

“It's okay, you don't have to do all the work anymore,” Nick says, more gently than he means to. “Want to give me a name, in case I have to heroically drag you from the brink of death?” It's meant to be a _joke_ , and it doesn't sound like a joke to either one of them.

“Silvertongue,” the man says, which is better than Skywalker, but not by much. Nick sighs, before inspecting the wound a little.

“Okay, Silver. Find something to bite down on, because _this_ is going to hurt.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It takes a few hours, digging by hand through the old paper records, until Nick finds the file he's looking for. It's thick, filled with handwritten mission reports and newspaper clippings and magazine articles and several pages from mythological texts, copied from various libraries. It's one of Nick's personal files, one he has never felt the need to make accessible to other SHIELD agents. It's titled, in Nick's own writing, _Subject Zero_. The last entry is from 1992.

The first few names on the outside of the file folder have question marks next to them- Skywalker, Silvertongue ( _Silver_ ), Liesmith, Shapechanger, Decepticon ( _Probably Joking_ ), The Fire That Burns. That last one has several question marks next to it. Under these, written later than the other names, Nick's handwriting reads- Loki, Loptr, Loder, Loke, Lokkju, Lopti, Loge, _See notes on file 23.056-b “Tricksters/Trickster Deities.”_

Nick tucks the file under his arm and carries it back to his office. He has a sandwich in his office- because Agent Webster's gone on some _insane_ kick recently trying to make sure everyone she works with eats properly, because she seems to have finally noticed how many of the Avengers and SHIELD personnel skip meals, and Mikel's been helping her sneak food onto Nick's desk, the _traitor._

It doesn't feel all that long ago that Dugan was dragging junior agents into the director's office to eat bowls of his homemade chili, so maybe Nick's more than a little okay with the trend. He stops to grab himself a bottle of water on the way up, and is accosted by Captain Rogers, looking clean and pressed in a nice shirt and khaki slacks.

“Director Fury, sir,” Rogers begins, which sounds a little like a threat when Nick catches the steel in his eyes. “The team's been talking, and we think Bruce should be staying at _home_ , with _us_. It's damaging the team dynamic, and we _miss_ him,” and _there_ is the oh-gosh puppy face, _right_ on cue.

“Rogers, as much as I agree with you on this, it's Dr. Banner's choice to be here,” Nick sighs, shifting the folder to ensure that Rogers can't see what's on it. It's not classified or anything, but it's sort of... _personal_. The man's eyes flick toward the folder, and Nick stifles the urge to sigh again. “He feels safe here, Steve. He has access to the labs in R &D and he's not afraid of the Hulk _killing_ all of you. If you want him to move back in, you should be talking to _him_.”

“I have, sir,” Rogers sounds a little hurt, and Nick makes a mental note to arrange for a discreet psych eval for the team before the week is out. “But mostly, we just... don't feel like talking.” Nick waits for this to sound like something other than a confession, and Steve adds hastily, “I mean, he's just- he's real _quiet_ and I can be quiet. His- Miss Ross- Betty getting married really messed him up, I think, and then after he was used by Loki to cause all that mess, he- it really got to him.”

“I can try to have a word with him, but it is ultimately up to him to decide to rejoin the rest of the world, Rogers,” Nick says gently, because he understands. Rogers hesitates, and Nick waits, knowing it's for some reason.

“Thor- he _really_ wants to see his brother,” he finally says, and Nick nods unhappily. Steve folds his arms, continuing, “And- I think maybe I should see him, too. Just to-”

“Rogers, I'm not in charge of Loki Odinson's confinement,” Nick says sharply, not liking where this seems to be going. “I don't have much say in how this is being handled, but I can assure you that I'm doing everything I can to ensure the safety and security of everyone involved.”

“Sir,” Rogers acknowledges, and lets Nick continue back to his office, a sullen headache forming in the space between his eyes.

Nick barely has time to sit down with his sandwich- a Rueben, Webster's trying to be _culinary_ \- before not one but _three_ people burst into his office. Barton has a hand on Banner's back and Coulson looks actually _murderous_ , and Nick gently flips the folder shut and puts his sandwich down.

“Gentlemen, one at a time,” he says wearily, and somehow he knows _who_ this is all about.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Don't faint, Silver,” Nick murmurs, and even though it's weaker and softer than he likes, it's good to hear the other man laugh.

“I promise I won't faint,” Silver tells him, his green eyes flashing amusement. Two of the three bullets have been removed, the one that's left is probably going to be worse than the other two. “You make a fine nurse, although your bedside manner leaves much to be desired.”

“Beggars can't be choosers,” Nick tells him, but there is a smile in his words and Silver's hand squeezes Nick's arm. There's too much blood on his hands for Nick to want to return the gesture, just yet. He shakes his head and works quickly to extract the bullet, wondering why Silver couldn't just get medical attention back home.

Despite how well he's been holding up so far, Nick doesn't miss how _pale_ Silver is, or the way his eyes roll back in his head as he sucks in a thin, reedy breath.

“You could stick around,” Nick says quietly, once they're done. “I don't know about _you_ , but I could use some _company_ after an ordeal like that.”

“You are adorable,” Silver slurs a little, a hand on Nick's cheek. His fingers are ice-cold and Nick is worried about that, but he's suddenly so _exhausted_ that it makes just enough sense to curl up, half-off his tiny bed, his head practically in Silver's lap.

He wakes up alone, six hours later, all signs of blood gone, the bullets in a small leather bag with some sort of clever little symbol branded into the material.

Nick doesn't know why, but he keeps the bag and the bullets on him during the rest of the operation, and things go so well that Stark actually smiles at him when he gets home, and they start talking about expanding the organization.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It is midsummer, 1992, and when the man who answers to _Silver_ shows up in Nick's doorway, he's a barefoot mess. He's pale and disheveled and his hands won't stop twitching, his eyes darting nervously from corner to corner.

“ _Please_ , Nicholas,” he exhales, and Nick snaps. Nick has lost two good agents in the last thirty-six hours, and there's no more escaping that they died at Jakob Fury's hands. In the five years since they last spoke, Jake's been more or less connected to over a dozen casualties.

“I need, I _need_ ,” Silver is gasping, sobbing, and Nick just can't take this right now. He's _finally_ managed to lure Jake back here, and they will talk or fight, but in the end Jake's going to be in SHIELD custody, in a prison they built for HYDRA operatives, and he'll _rot_ there for the rest of his life.

“There's no one else,” Silver whimpers, and Nick is responsible for _everything_ \- for the SHIELD training that's made his brother an expert at slaughtering junior agents, for exposing Jake's fiance (wife, now) as a double agent, for sleeping with her to _get_ that information, for driving Jake _away_. Drake Alvin had a wife and kids, and now she's a widow and the kids are fatherless, and _that_ is Nick's doing. Louise Mason was one of Nick's closest and oldest friends, and she is practically unrecognizable on the mortuary slab, and that is _also_ Nick's doing.

Nick has too much to bear now. He has too much to _prepare_ for. He just can't shoulder anything else, not even for a man he's come to care about over the past twelve years. Nick just has no room left in him for one more burden, and when Silver comes to him- wild-eyed, trembling, his fingernails bitten down to bloody nubs- Nick doesn't have the time or the energy to spare for him.

“Get out, I'm tired of your silly _games_ ,” Nick tells him, and it comes out a snarl. There is ice on the ground near Silver's feet, there is a trail of it shining in the moonlight, most of it glassy with a sheen of melted water, and Nick doesn't have time to wonder at it. The look in Silver's eyes is like the slamming of a door, and if he wasn't grieving and furious and terrified, Nick would take it back, would reach out and wrap Silver up and find out what had happened, but he has too much to _do_ and too much to _lose_. Nick loses the little bag that had become his good-luck charm, and the fight with Jake goes badly.

Jake takes Nick's eye and Nick kills him, and now Nick has nothing, now Nick has _no one_ \- his parents dead for ten years, his sister and nephews for eight- and he is in the hospital for most of the next day and he just doesn't understand why Howard won't come _tell_ him what's happening in the agency, in _their_ agency. It's another two days before Nick learns that Howard and Maria are dead, both of them with a BAC well over the legal limit, their car totaled by a tow truck that hit a patch of ice in the road and skidded into their lane.

It's another week before Nick remembers that it's the middle of July, that they died only a few miles from where Nick and Jake had fought, and the glimmer of ice shining in Silver's wake, spreading across the ground from his bare and battered feet.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nick kneels, leaning over Loki where the guards unceremoniously dumped him in the middle of the floor. He thinks of 1987, just after Jake found out about Nick and Amber, of being held by pale arms that seemed so much stronger than they looked. He remembers finally, _finally_ breaking down, crying against the shoulder of his strangest and most distant friend, confessing _everything_. He remembers a soothing voice, murmuring a lullaby that he can't quite remember the words to, although the tune comes to him sometimes, now and then.

Loki's eyes flutter open and he smiles, unguarded and soft, and Nick's heart _hurts_ at the thought of all the few but memorable times he's seen that smile, slow and goofy and a sugar-sweet reaction to seeing Nick first thing in the morning.

“I dreamed of you,” Loki murmurs, weakly raising his hand and letting it fall against Nick's knee. “It was all different. You had both your eyes. You were tired of my silly games.”

Nick exhales, all in a rush.

“ _Yes_ ,” he whispers, hoping against reason that Loki _remembers_ , that they can be _friends_ again, but _terrified_ too, that Loki only remembers that last conversation, and will only remember being turned from Nick's doorstep in his time of need.

Nick realizes that neither of these is the case, when Loki smiles absently and drifts back into sleep. And Nick can't just walk out of this cell, because Loki is a boneless heap on the floor, and for just a moment there, Loki _trusted_ him again.

Nick scoops him into his arms- when did Loki get so _light_? Even when he was first imprisoned here, Nick couldn't have carried him this easily. He sighs and deposits Loki on the loveless cot, and Loki's eyes open again as Nick's covering him with the thin blanket.

“Doctor Banner told me that you apologized to him,” Nick begins, sitting down near Loki on the bed. “And then proceeded to _attack_ him?”

“No. I need,” Loki starts, sounding delirious. “I _need_ him.”

“You need him,” Nick echoes, and thinks of ice spreading out under pale pink feet.

“The noise stopped when he came to me. I think... I think he made it stop. And it just... _hurts_ , all the time, and he made it stop.” 1987 comes back to Nick, five visits from his friend that year, when he needed it, when he needed someone to talk to or cry on or sleep with.

“Describe this noise to me,” Nick prompts, remembering how hard he worked to make Nick smile that year.

“Constant. An incessant drone.” Loki's eyes are unfocused, and Nick wants to believe it's just the drugs in him and not the fact that he's getting less and less sleep every night. “Sometimes it's louder, so loud that I can't hear anything else... it used to go silent and now it _never_ leaves me.”

“Unless Doctor Banner's around?” Nick asks, and he _knows_ what Rinehart is doing, what Wraith is doing, and it makes him sick that he's had a hand in it. The collar Tony had designed was only supposed to suppress Loki's power and abilities; it should never have been altered to include Rinehart's designs.

“Banner,” Loki sighs agreeably. Nick puts a hand on Loki's shoulder, leaning close so that the surveillance in the room won't pick up his whispered promise.

“I'm sorry, Silver,” he tells him, sure that he's asleep. “I'm going to get you _out_ of here.”


	3. At the Hour When We Are Trembling With Tenderness

“I want you to see this,” Nick says, ushering Phil into his office. There are three screens on his desk, and Nick feels bone-tired as he presses _play_ , the first screen flickering to life and an image of Erik Selvig filling the picture.

“It's hard to remember much,” the recorded Eric says, in a video that was taken several weeks back, just after Loki was first taken into captivity. “The best way I can describe it is the feeling of falling asleep while watching a movie or a television show, you know? Things are happening and you're aware of them, but they're so far out of reach that it's hard to relate, almost.”

“How aware?” the agent questioning him presses. Phil leans forward, watching as the Agent- Webster, one of the few times she's ever worn the field suit- reaches out and gives Selvig a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Was there any sensation, anything that felt unusual?”

“Pain,” Selvig admits, shaking his head. “I remember screaming. It's... I was a prisoner, I knew that much, and it _hurt_. I felt myself doing things, felt something, some _presence_ access my knowledge, my memories, but it was all a _blur_.”

“I'm sorry,” Webster offers gently, still too soft for average field ops, the edge of gauze bandages showing above the collar of her suit, bulking up her throat and left shoulder. “What do you remember about this presence?”

“It was like torture,” Selvig murmurs, looking down. “Like I was being burned alive and buried in ice, all at once.”

Nick pauses the video, fumbles with the second screen until it brightens, showing a similar interview with Clint Barton, only a day or two later. Phil's getting the idea, but Nick wants him to see this, all in a row.

“Don't know why I have to do this, we _caught_ him,” Clint complains on-screen, and his interviewer- Agent Wilson, who was a little less qualified but also a little more objective than Webster when it comes to Clint- laughs briefly, nudging a cup of coffee towards Clint on the table. Clint takes it gratefully and gulps it down, hissing at the heat.

“Just trying to get a read on what it is he's done, buddy. You know how it is.” Clint sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose with calloused fingertips.

“I don't even know how to describe it, man. It was a fucking _nightmare_ , the kind where you're watching everything and you're doing stuff but you're not _really_ doing anything, you know? Like- no matter how hard you're screaming at yourself, don't walk down that hallway, don't open that door, don't turn around-”

“You're stuck doing it anyway,” Wilson finishes, and Clint nods vaguely. “So you didn't have control over your body. Could you still feel things?”

“Sorta, kinda,” Clint says, hesitating. “Truth be told, man... not sure how much I noticed about what my body felt or didn't feel. The whole time, it was like...” Clint shakes his head, folding his arms around himself. “It was like I was burning up, under my skin, only that's... at the same time, I felt like- like my blood was snow or something. That make _any_ sense?”

“No,” Wilson says, a smile in his voice, and Clint offers him a weak grin in return before speaking.

“Like that bastard couldn't figure out whether to fry me or freeze me, so he settled for doing both, at the same time. Does _that_ make any sense?”

Nick pauses the video, glancing over at Phil. “Last one,” he promises, before turning on the third screen.

It doesn't show the clean, sterile interview room this time- it's Loki's cell, their prisoner hunched over himself, and Phil's walking into the picture and kneeling down next to him.

“Mr. Odinson-” the image of Phil says, roughly ten days ago. Loki interrupts him.

“I will not tell you of the Tesseract,” he sighs, burying his face in his hands. “I will not tell you where it is.”

“That's fine,” Phil tells him, gazing intently at the ragged demigod. “But perhaps you can help me, anyhow? When we find it- because we _will_ \- and if someone- say, _myself_ \- were to operate it-”

“No,” Loki gasps, reaching out for Phil. “Don't. Not _you,_ Coulson, not... no. You _can't_. It would break you, and _delight_ in the doing of it.”

“It's an object, Loki. It's not alive,” Phil says softly, and Loki's head shakes, his long hair flying.

“No, no, no,” he moans, and Phil lets himself be pulled close. “Don't, please, it is terror, it is agony, its flames will rend through you and it will wear your skin as it does what it pleases-”

“It's alright, Loki,” Phil sighs, rubbing Loki's back a little. “It's alright. I won't use it. It was just a theoretical question.”

“You all keep asking me how I used it,” Loki whimpers, barely loud enough for the cameras to pick up, “and you don't understand that I don't even remember how it works, what it is, what it's capable of, I _never_ used it, it used _me_ -”

Nick pauses the video, giving the Phil of the here-and-now a significant glance. Phil looks pained and a little sick. For whatever reason, Loki trusts Phil, and Phil doesn't _like_ it, but he cares about Loki, more than he wants to, and probably for the simple reason that Loki doesn't really _have_ any other advocates.

“Director Fury-”

“It was never just Loki manipulating Barton and Selvig, it was _both_ of them, the Cube acting _through_ him,” Nick explains, waving a hand at the screens. “He's not responsible-”

“Nick,” Phil sighs, moving closer. “He wasn't under _anything's_ influence when the New Mexico incident occurred, nor when he attempted genocide on a planetary scale-”

“He suffered a psychotic break, Phil, we don't know what kind of conditioning the people of that warrior culture grow up with,” Nick tries, because he doesn't want to lose this battle, he _can't_. “We're not holding Selvig _responsible_ for handing information over to Loki, we're not holding _Barton_ responsible for shooting Webster through the throat and shoulder-”

“Barton was being controlled _by Loki_ at the time,” Phil hisses, eyes narrowed, “and it was only through Barton's constant struggle to rebel against Loki's psychic hold that the arrows missed their targets. If Loki'd had his way, she'd be _dead_ right now-”

“Loki was being _controlled_ by the Cube,” Nick insists, slamming a hand down. “And for all we know, Loki purposefully missed the killing blows, anyway. Dammit, Coulson, why are you fighting me on this? You hate what's happening as much as I do!”

“I hate the inhumanity of how they're treating him, Director Fury,” Phil bites back, “I hate the haphazard methods and I hate that he has to suffer. But he needs to be held accountable for what he's done-”

“We don't even know at this point if he _is_ accountable!” There is a moment of silence, then two. Nick knows he's won when he hears Phil sigh.

“If this blows up in your face, Nick, my medical fees are coming out of _your_ retirement fund.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's 1975, and Jakob Fury is still overseas, but Nick is graduating college with a degree in Mathematics, of all things. Dad looks so proud and Mom can't contain herself, and Dawn's sassing playfully at Nick because she's still in high school, and he picks her up and twirls her around and they're both laughing.

Years later, when Nick's standing up in front of a church, next to Dawn's coffin and the two small ones beside it that contain all that's left of little Johnny and Darwin, Nick shuts his eyes and holds on to the memory of this moment, and it is _enough_ , it's enough to be all he has of her, but that is far yet in Nick's future and right now he is nothing but pride and love and laughter.

Dad takes them out to eat, and in the morning Nick gets himself cleaned up and gathers up his resume and a cover letter, both of them typed up on Mom's ancient typewriter, and heads to the biggest game in town.

He steels himself at the cold glare the receptionist gives him, preparing himself to give her the papers anyway, when an older man strides up to her and asks her for his appointments, a tumbler of warm brown liquid in one hand. Even from this angle, Nick knows who this guys is; his name's on the outside of the building, after all.

“Mister Stark,” he says, walking straight up to the man with his shoulders thrown back. Howard Stark looks mildly amused, but not altogether surprised and in no way disgusted, so he gets a point or two in Nick's book. “My name's Nicholas Fury, I'd like to talk to you about a job.”

“We're not hiring at the moment,” Stark says smoothly, but his eyes are appraising and his smile is genuine, and he takes the resume from Nick's outstretched hand, reading it over.

“Mr. Stark, I'm so sorry,” the receptionist is hissing, visibly furious. “I'll have security remove him immediately, I-”

“What's your name again? Bridget? Mary?” Stark interrupts, glancing over at her.

“Amelia, sir, and I-”

“You're fired, Amelia,” Stark finishes smoothly. “Pack your things.” The stammering woman is suddenly flanked by security guards, who are more than happy to help her in the moving process.

“I hope you're not going to tell me that you're suddenly hiring in the secretarial division,” Nick says warily, and Stark laughs, almost spilling his drink.

“I like you, Fury. And no, I agree, a guy like you would be _wasted_ in the typing pool.” Stark pulls a small card out of an inner pocket, handing it over to Nick. “Fortunately for both of us, I'm involved in a little side-project that's _always_ looking for fresh talent.”

The card has an address, a date- two days from now- and a meeting time. The back is merely a logo, an eagle emblazoned across a shield.

“What is this?” Nick asks, searching Stark's smug face for answers.

“It's the future, Fury,” he responds, and just like that, Nick knows he's going to work for this man.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's 1987 and Nick reaches for the bottle, only to have it moved out of range by a slender hand.

“You don't want this, Nicholas,” Silver says carefully, appearing, as always, out of nowhere. Nick snarls and swipes for it again, too unsteady to make a proper grab for it.

“The hell I don't,” he snaps, and Silver sighs, sounding like he's had to deal with this sort of nonsense far too much already.

“Nicholas, as you well know by now, I have all the time in the _world_ for you,” Silver purrs into his ear, fingertips drawing looping circles through Nick's shirt. “But if you plan on forcing me to endure the sight and smell of your vomit during this time, I will be _frightfully_ unforgiving.”

Nick scoffs, swatting Silver away. “You like to see me suffer. You always show up when I'm at my worst,” Nick accuses, not quite drunk, just buzzed enough to feel all warm and angry inside.

“It's hardly my fault you're never happy, brat,” Silver says, but he doesn't sound angry. Nick hears the clink of glass, hears Silver open the refrigerator door and sigh heavily. “Nicholas, my darling, why are you incapable of purchasing foodstuffs with actual nutritional benefits?”

“Because fuck you, that's why,” Nick growls, putting his head down on the counter. Silver laughs faintly, rummaging through Nick's fridge.

“Only if you can behave.” After a moment or two, Silver sets a glass of water down next to Nick, and a plate with a thick slice of bread and a slimmer slice of warm, yellow-brown cheese on it. Nick peers at it, his brain feeling rusty and raw.

“It's just bread and cheese,” Nick says, and cracks up laughing, because Howard's Fondue story _never_ gets old, even though the man himself seems practically ancient after all these years.

“Eat it,” Silver commands, cool fingers working against the knots in the back of Nick's neck. “Please. For _me_.” Nick growls at Silver's mothering, but he eats the snack and drains his glass of water, and when he's done he feels a little better, but not really, because Jake's still gone and is _never actually coming back._

It's easy enough to let Silver lead him over to his bed, to let Silver peel his shirt and shoes off, and to run his broad hands up Silver's sides, slipping them underneath the lightly woven shirt until his fingertips brush against too-prominent ribs and lined scar tissue.

Silver's neck is cool against Nick's tongue, his hair smells like woodsmoke and ice, and this old song and dance is very lovely, but Nick's had exactly one drink too many.

“Tell me about your brother,” he mumbles against Silver's stomach, and the man actually pulls away, giving Nick a sour little grin.

“I take back all the nice things I've said about your sense of timing,” he mutters, reaching over to smooth the tension out of Nick's brow. “There is not much to say, Nicholas. Nowhere near your own sibling's levels of drama.”

“You know everything about me,” Nick complains, tucking his face against the crook of Silver's neck. “And I barely know anything about you. I want to _know_.”

“You're so petulant, you're like a _child_ ,” Silver sighs, looping an arm around Nick. “I don't know _what_ to tell you. My brother and I were very close. Lately, I feel we are... less so. I think he doesn't have time for me anymore.”

“His loss,” Nick asserts, looking up into Silver's eyes, tracing the delicate latticework of scars that litter Silver's body. “These aren't just new. They're _different_. How-?”

“Shapeshifter, remember?” Nick grimaces, remembering all of the evidence pointing towards this skillset. “When I tire of my scars, I wipe the slate clean.”

“I got that part,” Nick says, propping himself up on his elbows. “I mean, how do you get to the point where you're covered in so many so _quickly_ , Silver?”

Silver quiets at that, and Nick presses a kiss to one moon-colored wrist. Silver squirms out of his grip, sitting up and looking down at himself. When he finally speaks, Nick almost doesn't hear it.

“My brother and his friends are... careless. It never occurs to them to watch out for one another, no matter how much danger they are in.”

“Someone should be watching _your_ back,” Nick growls, taking Silver's earlobe between his teeth. “Stay. With _me_. Look _out_ for you.” Silver can't exactly respond to that, mainly because Nick _knows_ how sensitive his ears are, the bastard. After that the conversation devolves into little more than breathless laughter and soft, inviting moans, the firm press of Silver's body against Nick's and the warmth that only seems to emanate from his lanky form when they're together like this.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's 2012 and the Avengers are assembled, have done a _fine_ job of saving the world, in Nick's opinion.

It's only later, when he reviews the footage and then actually sees the unconscious god of chaos in person that it _hits_ him, and by then what can he do? So Nick stays and stays, until Loki Odinson is finally starting to move in the ghastly cell they've built for him.

“You're awake,” Nick says, and even now he has _hope_ , however small.

“Kill you,” Loki croaks, and that moment is when Nick's hope dies. The rift between his Silver and the Loki crouched on the floor before him is too wide; thanks to what they know of the space between worlds, it's altogether too possible that what has been twenty years for Nick has been two hundred or two thousand for Loki. There is _nothing_ for Nick here, and it was Nick that drove the wedge between them in the first place.

“You certainly tried,” Nick says drily, and puts the memories back where they can't hurt him or hinder his ability to function. “Turns out, I'm a hard man to kill.”


End file.
